History
by northcaroline
Summary: The Newsroom - Will/MacKenzie. "It isn't until they are in the corridor heading toward the studio that she realizes his tie is still hanging loosely around his neck."


Title: History  
Series: The Newsroom  
Pairing: Will/Mackenzie  
Rating: T  
Summary: It isn't until they are in the corridor heading toward the studio that she realizes his tie is still hanging loosely around his neck.

* * *

It isn't until they are in the corridor heading toward the studio that she realizes his tie is still hanging loosely around his neck. She rolls her eyes at him and asks, "What am I going to do with you?" as she drags him by the ends of the necktie into the empty control room next door.

It is dimly lit, and when she pushes him against a wall, he sarcastically asks, "Are we going to do this now?"

"If by _this_, you mean, am I going to make you presentable enough for television, then _yes_. I might be letting you do the news high, but you're at least going to look the part."

He relents and relaxes against the wall, letting her fingers dance over his throat in an easy, practiced motion. How many times had she dressed him when they were together, standing on tip-toes in just her underwear to tie his tie or brush imaginary lint off his jacket? Too many to count.

How many times had she stood just this close and _un_dressed him? Even more times.

He watches her concentrate, sees her eyes put just as much focus on him as she does on her work, and … _God, he misses her_. Maybe it's the night, or maybe it's the drugs coursing through his system, but he's overwhelmed by grief and longing and MacKenzie.

Of course, he's unable to process any of this in any appropriate fashion, so it manifests itself in gently touching her elbows to get her attention, rubbing small circles on the backs of her arms until she looks up.

"Don't distract me."

"Do you remember that night in Paris?" he breathes.

"Of course I remember the Paris trip." She finishes the knot with a flick of the wrist, tightening it toward his neck, but she doesn't immediately step away from him.

"Dinner at _Le Meurice_, the Tuileries Gardens at night, and when you came to bed in nothing but my blue Armani tie, I have never been more in love with anyone or anything in my entire life."

"Well, it's a good tie."

He looks down, averting her eyes, to murmur, "You know that's not what I meant, Mac."

"I know," she says, finally taking that step back. "I was very much in love with you, too."

"Was?" he dares.

"Will—" she protests. She knows it's the marijuana talking – and she doesn't want to be led down this path by marijuana.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just … do a good job tonight." She wonders if he will remember this conversation in the morning, if he will want to revisit it in the harsh light of his sure-to-come hangover. Part of her hopes he does, and part of her hopes he never again reminds her of how happy they were, in Paris or at home.

Because she remembers. She remembers his smile – uncynical and plain, so different from the ones she gets now – sharing a croissant and café au lait in the park with her the morning after that night in Paris. (Well, the afternoon after that night in Paris.) She remembers how much love there was in his eyes, even more than the lust-clouded love of The Great Tie Seduction.

And she remembers throwing it all away.

There will be time for self-pity and regret later; for now, there is an important broadcast to do – perhaps their most important together to date. She buttons his collar into place with one last wistful half-smile.

"You know I wouldn't let anyone else do this, right?" she asks.

He smiles. "I know." Impulsively, he cups her left cheek in his hand and kisses her right. "Thank you." He brushes his knuckles softly against her jawline as he pulls away, and she feels her eyelids flutter closed without her permission. But just as quickly as he had leaned in, he steps back.

Even still, she feels like his defenses are falling, like he's letting her in. Maybe, again, it's just the drugs, but she wants to believe it's more than that, that they're getting somewhere.

Her last memory before she turns her brain back to work mode is of Will on the balcony at their hotel in Paris. It was the perfect morning – room service breakfast, a bright spring morning, the Eiffel Tower in the distance – and he had come out to the terrace with a _London Times_ and dropped a kiss on her cheek just like this one. Back then, it was easy, like a habit, almost forgettable. She doesn't know why it comes back to her now, but it reminds her that these moments weren't always important occasions.

It used to just be something they did.

So she lets herself believe that this is just something that they do, the latest incarnation of their relationship – Will and MacKenzie 174.0.

And who knows? Maybe it will be something they do tomorrow, too.

For now, he straightens his tie and leads her into their control room. There's more history to cover tonight.


End file.
